


Fever

by paperstorm



Series: Somewhere In Brooklyn [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bottom Steve Rogers, Brooklyn, Established Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 20:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18948157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperstorm/pseuds/paperstorm
Summary: It's unbearably warm in Brooklyn in July. Bucky figures if they're going to sweat anyway, might as well be for a fun reason.This has no plot I'm just bored so I wrote porn.





	Fever

It’s so hot. July is always sticky, always rolls in with dampness floating in thick air and heat that rains down from the sky and feels like fire on their skin, but this week has been particularly unlivable. The other evening Steve had showered in icy water with his clothes on and then sat on the kitchen floor in front of the open refrigerator for 20 minutes. He’s always, always the one nagging about conserving electricity to keep the bills low, because he feels perpetually like their poverty is his fault despite Bucky swearing up and down, dawn till dusk, that it isn’t, but it’s so sweltering in their tiny apartment that Steve doesn’t care anymore. At least not this week.  
   
“Let’s move to Iceland,” Steve says. He’s lying on the floor in the living room, limbs splayed out so not one inch of his skin is touching any other part of his body.  
   
Bucky chuckles, and doesn’t look up from the newspaper in this hands. Europe is going to war. What else is new. “It’s not literally a land of ice, you know that, right?”  
   
“An iceberg, then,” Steve concedes. “Let’s build a house on an iceberg and just float around the ocean.”  
   
“You would look cute in a parka,” Bucky muses.  
   
“You’d look cute if you shut up.”  
   
Behind the paper, Bucky smirks. Steve is ornery at the best of times, and this is certainly not the best of times. It has to be a hundred degrees in their apartment. Bucky’s melting, too, but doesn’t get grumpy about it like Steve does. “Would you cheer up if I sucked you off?”  
   
He peeks around the newspaper, to see Steve shift on the carpet as the idea gets to him, even though he wishes it didn’t. “How would that cool either of us down?”  
   
“Didn’t say it would.”  
   
Steve doesn’t answer. Bucky goes back to reading.  
   
He caves, later. Steve is in their bedroom, striped boxers and a wafer-thin undershirt, clinging with sweat to his chest. Bucky’s fucked in the head, he always has been, but dammit, he can’t resist. It’s all wrong. He’s supposed to get stiff and jittery for curvy hips and soft breasts and red-painted lips, and he does, to an extent, but not the way he gets it for Steve. He’s going right to Hell the minute he leaves this earth. He knows that. Worries about it, from time to time. But there’s nothing to be done about it. Steve, with his boney elbows and his pale, freckled skin and his massive, courageous heart contained in that too-small ribcage. Sometimes Bucky doesn’t know how that heart doesn’t just burst right out of his chest. It’s far, far too big to be locked up in a body that Steve hates, that is always failing him, always getting sick and bruised and broken. Bucky doesn’t see it that way. He never has. He itches for it, aches to put his hands all over it. Steve is perfect, fits so perfectly in Bucky’s hands, is just the right size to curl up in his lap.  
   
Steve senses him staring, and rolls his eyes at Bucky over his shoulder. “Quit it.”  
   
“You really don’t want it?” Bucky asks, with another smirk. Of course Steve wants it. It’s a game he likes to play, pretending he isn’t as wobbly for it as Bucky always is. That fiercely guarded pride. Bucky doesn’t care if Steve wants to act tough out in the world. He’d be stepped on if he didn’t. But here? Inside their four walls, covered in ripped green wallpaper and cracks in the plaster, Bucky sees through him. And Steve knows it.  
   
“It’s  _so_ hot, Buck.”  
   
“Mhm.” Bucky walks into the room, approaches slowly. From behind, he puts his hands on Steve’s hips. Curls his fingers, digging them into heated flesh. Steve’s hipbones are revelatory. Bucky’s mouth is always drawn to them like magnets.  
   
“Buck,” Steve repeats. Softer. Fading.  
   
Bucky leans down, licks at a bead of sweat on the back of Steve’s neck. Warm skin and salt, it bursts on his tongue. “I like the way you look, all sticky.”  
   
“Not quite the same as when I look like this because you got me this way.” Even as he protests, Steve leans back into him.  
   
Bucky tips his hips forward, presses his crotch against the small of Steve’s back. It’s mostly innocent contact, but it’s lit with the promise of more, and blood moves. Surges in his veins, travels downward, centering between his legs. He’s nearly bare, too, in thin underclothes that barely dull the sensation.  
   
“Looks good either way,” Bucky tells him, nipping at Steve’s earlobe, “but you’re so right. You’re a picture, when you’re all messy because’a me.”  
   
Steve swallows. Bucky can hear it click in his throat.  
   
He slides one hand around, fingertips moving over Steve’s stomach, up under his damp cotton shirt. Then lower, dipping into the boxers, cupping vulnerable flesh in his hand and squeezing gently. It grows, under his fingers, and Bucky smiles against Steve’s neck.  
   
“Told you.”  
   
“If you touch my dick it’s gonna respond,” Steve complains. His body isn’t complaining. It’s leaning more fully back against Bucky, hips pushing forward into his hand, just slightly, just small enough that Steve could deny it if Bucky called him on it.  
   
“Responds so nice,” Bucky murmurs to him. With his other hand he pulls Steve back, presses him in closer. It is hot, and this isn’t helping, he’s right about that. But Bucky doesn’t care. If they’re gonna sweat, it might as well be for fun reasons.  
   
“You never turn off, huh?” Steve doesn’t sound upset about it. He reaches behind himself to tangle long fingers in Bucky’s hair.  
   
“How can I? Livin’ with a walking wet dream?”  
   
“Sure.” Steve doesn’t believe Bucky, when he says things like that. Bucky still says them. Because they’re true, and because he hopes one day, if he repeats it enough, Steve will learn to believe him.  
   
He wraps his fingers around the length in Steve’s shorts, halfway to hard now, and strokes him slowly. Teasing, promising more. This fits so perfect in Bucky’s hand, too, just like the rest of him. It’s warm and it’s soft and Bucky lives and dies for it, always wants it in his hand, in his mouth, in his ass, wherever Steve will let him put it. Bucky plays with the foreskin, sliding it over the tip that’s already wet, because Steve likes that. The softest, sweetest little  _oh_ falls from his lips.  
   
“Bucky,” Steve says, one more time. A prayer, this time, instead of a protest. Bucky never tires of the hundreds, millions, of different ways Steve says his name, but that’s one of his favorites.  
   
“Lemme taste you,” Bucky pleads. He trails his nose through Steve’s hair, inhaling him, his own dick stiff enough now to properly rub against the top of Steve’s ass. He wishes he could just shove Steve’s boxers down and slide right in. It’s been too long since the last time, so he wouldn’t. But he wishes.  
   
“Probably taste like sweat.”  
   
“Sayin’ that like it’s a bad thing, baby.” Bucky licks again. Steve’s neck is delicious. “You’re my favorite flavor.”  
   
“Why am I in love with you,” Steve complains, groaning about bad chat-up lines.  
   
“I don’t know,” Bucky answers, seriously. That, he does take serious. Even if he’s putting on a show with everything else. “I’m the luckiest guy in the whole world.”  
   
Steve answers with a shaky exhale, as Bucky twists his wrist, spreading all that slick around and using it to ease the way.  
   
Low and quiet in Steve’s ear, Bucky asks, “one taste?”  
   
“Like I’m gonna say no,” Steve huffs.  
   
“You could,” Bucky reminds, because that’s important too. “I’d fuck off if you said so.”  
   
“I know,” Steve answers automatically. “Don’t want you to.”  
   
Bucky wraps his arm fully around Steve’s waist so they’re flush together, heat and moisture. He wants to lift Steve up and throw him down on the bed, but it might not produce the desired effect, and he doesn’t want to risk it. Instead he tugs, urging Steve to move with him, letting Steve climb onto the mattress on his own. Bucky crawls over him, pushing his nose between Steve’s thighs, lips finding the delicate skin there and dragging his tongue over it. Steve’s tenting his boxers, and Bucky’s mouth waters. He puts his lips over the fabric, sucking slowly, letting his spit wet the fabric. Steve’s hands are back in his hair, tugging gently.  
   
“Could die happy, babydoll,” Bucky tells him. He pulls at Steve’s boxers, getting them down enough to tuck the elastic under Steve’s balls so his cock lies, thick and pink, against Steve’s stomach. Bucky runs the tip of his nose up it, and then licks at the head, lapping up the moisture at the tip and swallowing it down.  
   
“You’re easy,” Steve tells him. His voice wavers a little, as Bucky digs his tongue into the messy slit.  
   
“You’re not,” Bucky teases. “S’okay, though, I’m up for a challenge.”  
   
Steve’s retort dies as Bucky takes the head of his cock into his mouth, hollowing out his cheeks and sliding down.  
   
“Fuck,” Steve breathes, fingers squeezing in a handful of Bucky’s hair.  
   
Bucky reaches between his own legs to palm himself, eyes closed and pleasure spiraling through him.  
   
“Stop,” Steve rasps, “or I’m …”  
   
Bucky pops off him but stays close, drags his wet mouth over Steve’s heated flesh. “Maybe I want you to. Want you to come down my throat.”  
   
“Fuck me.”  
   
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Thought you didn’t wanna get too sweaty?”  
   
“Ship sailed.” Steve’s eyes are closed and his chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. “Fuck me before I come to my senses.”  
   
Bucky grins, placing a kiss to the head of Steve’s cock before he dashes to the bathroom to the Vaseline. Steve is naked by the time he gets back, spread out on their bed, flushed skin and glassy eyes, fingers curled around himself and stroking slowly. Bucky’s soul leaves his body for a moment, taking in the sight.  
   
“Look at you,” he whispers, reverent. He strips himself, too, and walks on his knees back onto the bed, settling between Steve’s legs. He touches, sliding his hands up Steve’s thighs, digging his fingertips in.  
   
Steve blushes, and it’s more that just arousal. “Quit talkin’.”  
   
“I can multitask.” Bucky unscrews the lid off the jar and scoops out a generous helping, warming it up between his fingers.  
   
Steve hitches his legs up, planting his feet on the bed so his knees are in the air, and Bucky loses the air from his lungs. He spreads Steve open with his clean hand, to get a closer look. He’s dizzy with want, brushing his thumb against the little pink hole, so small but it always opens up so beautifully to let him in. Bucky is properly addicted to it, like the drunks outside Flannigan’s as the sun comes up. It’s too late for him, no way to get sober now. Steve will be the death of him, and Bucky will die a happy man.  
   
“Fuckin’ beautiful,” Bucky praises, just to see Steve blush again as he rubs Vaseline over the hole. It twitches against his fingers, and Bucky’s cock throbs. He likes making Steve blush, but he also means it. He means it with every inch of him. Nobody’s like Steve. The rest of the world is so massively, disastrously wrong about him.  
   
“Don’t,” Steve mumbles.  
   
Bucky leans over him, kisses him for the first time today. Claims Steve’s mouth with his own, tongue dipping between those sweet lips, tasting all that fire. “Never gonna stop. Gonna tell you you’re beautiful every single day and twice on Sunday’s, for the rest of my damn life. Get over it.”  
   
“Not compared to you.”  
   
“Can’t tell you how wrong you are.” Bucky slides a finger in, pushing smoothly inside, heat and suction and soft inner-walls. Steve sighs against his lips, rocking back against Bucky’s hand, wanting more. He always wants more. Bucky lives in fear of the day he’ll run out of more to give.  
   
“Hurry up.”  
   
Bucky wants to argue, but doesn’t. He withdraws his finger and goes back in with three, kissing the grimace from the sting off Steve’s face. He likes to feel it.  
   
The first slide of his cock inside is always miraculous, always takes the floor out from under Bucky and leaves him helpless and falling and Steve underneath him the only thing anchoring him to time and space. Steve wraps all four limbs around him, keeping Bucky close, too close for the heat and Bucky drips onto him but Steve doesn’t seem to mind anymore.  
   
“Love you, Buck,” he breathes, as Bucky moves. In a deep, frantic kiss, Bucky can tell he means it.  
   
“Aren’t enough words in the whole damn language to explain how much I love you, sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs. He lowers down to his elbows so they’re flush together, so his stomach can rub against Steve’s cock as he thrusts. Nerve endings alight, constellations burst behind his eyelids. “Could make a list but there ain’t enough paper in the world.”  
   
“Harder,” Steve urges, and Bucky obliges. Always does. Steve’s been driving this truck since the day they met. Bucky always follows.  
   
The sweat on Steve’s neck is salty on Bucky’s tongue. The room pulses around them, damp air hanging heavy and clinging to damp skin. Bucky keeps moving, finding his salvation in Steve. If this is Hell-worthy, book him a one-way ticket. He couldn’t care less.  
   
 

**Author's Note:**

> [come talk to me on tumblr if you want!](http://paper-storm.tumblr.com/)


End file.
